


The Marvelous Gentleman Teryn Loghain of LaGwaren

by Smaragdina



Category: Don Quixote - Fandom, Dragon Age
Genre: AU, AU Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smaragdina/pseuds/Smaragdina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Delusional knight Teyrn Loghain of LaGwaren takes up arms against ancient evils and windmills with his squire Ser Cauthrien and his faithful mabari Rocinante. Dragon Age meets Don Quixote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Marvelous Gentleman Teryn Loghain of LaGwaren

I.

“I am sorry,” said Isolde, taking a half-step back. Wariness thickened her accent until it was almost indecipherable. “You must be thinking of somebody else. I – I am married!”

“Milady, if you are married, then I am a wandering madman.” Loghain stooped slightly to kiss the shocked woman’s hand. Cauthrien, statue-still behind him, tried not to wince. Eamon’s tavern had fallen upon hard times and Isolde’s hand was dirty from the kitchens, sweet with masking perfumes as it may be; _Orlesian_ dirt, and _Orlesian_ perfumes, and it was not something her lord should be kissing. He might catch cold. She wiped disgust and disapproval from her face and watched the other woman’s lip curl with the same.

“You are a madman, then,” Isolde announced, pulling away, “I am _married,_ and I am an honest woman, and I am Orlesian and you are –” She broke off and gave an airy, chill laugh. “You are _Loghain,_ no? I have heard of you, and you will want nothing to do with me.”

“You’ve heard of me!” Loghain puffed himself up. “I had not hoped that word of my deeds had reached this far afield. What have you heard? My victory at River Dane? The way I united the country against the Darkspawn menace? Or –”

“My lord, you let the lady speak,” said Cauthrien quietly, laying a gloved hand on his shoulder. “You can’t expect to impress her if she never gets in a word.”

He would not, of course, listen to her; but if he was going to try and woo Eamon’s chilly wife, perhaps that was a good thing.

Isolde watched with narrowed eyes. “I’ll leave you and your little… _follower_ alone, then,” she said, pulling away, and Cauth stiffened, reached for the Summer Broomhandle –

“Milady –”

She stopped, arm falling at her side.

He _always_ did this.

And he’d _never_ called her ‘milady.’

“- I am about to embark on a most dangerous quest. And it is very likely I will not return –”

“Searching for Maric’s lost shield, are we?” scoffed Isolde.

“Yes, exactly! As a symbol to unite the country in these dark times.” Loghain took a deep breath. Cauthrien closed her eyes. “Could I ask – a favor, to sustain me on this quest?”

Isolde stared at him a moment. “I’ll…embroider one by the morning.”

“Excellent.”

And then he was gone, striding off toward dinner with a rattle of rusted ill-fitting plate, leaving Cauthrien and Isolde to size each other up like a pair of hounds. The latter sniffed, folded her arms, looked Cauthrien up and down. “You are his ‘follower,’ yes?”

“Yes,” she said in a calm voice.

“And you follow him, because…?”

“Because he is a good man. Misguided, but a good man. And because I like him.”

“Like him? Is that what you call it? Tell me, why does he need a ‘lady’s favor’ if he has his little follower to tail after him and f-”

Cauthrien’s first punch took the woman full in the face.

 

II.

Loghain told Cauthrien, quietly, as she appeared at the dinner table ten minutes late and with so many scratches that she appeared to have wrestled a rosebush, that he approved. She had obviously won her wounds fighting some great evil.

He was entirely oblivious to the fact that the _great evil_ was the woman serving them the soup and glaring at Cauthrien from the shadows of a pair of black eyes.

A whine came from under the table, and something wet nudged her foot. She looked underneath. “Hey, Rocinante.”

“ _Whuff_.” The old mabari nuzzled at her foot again and rested his head on his paws. He was grey at the muzzle and his eyes were almost gone, ears starting to go, fur thinning and ragged despite all of Cauthrien’s careful grooming. A good squire must always look after her lord’s great war hound, after all. He was looking even thinner than usual and she let the tablecloth fall with a sigh, glancing around for something for his dinner.

Teagan caught her eye across the table and smiled, but the amusement there felt too much like pity, and she pretended she hadn’t seen. Her gaze fell on the untouched roast on Loghain’s plate and her lips thinned to a concerned line. “My Lord, you should …”

“…And I swear, milady, that I shall find the traitors who did this to you and -!”

…Isolde. Ah.

Confident that he wasn’t paying attention, she slid the whole slice off his plate and under the table. At least she could get _one_ of them to eat.

The rest of the meal passed in relative calm, Cauthrien listening to the happy snuffles from Rocinante and avoiding the barbs from Isolde the woman brought out course after course, Loghain ranting on and on about the Orlesian menace and Eamon repeating that there are no Orlesians, there had never _been_ Orlesians, there had been peace with Orlais for decades and really, this quest for Maric’s shield was folly, everyone knew it had been lost for good at Ostagar, Loghain was an old man and really should go back to Gwaren with his maps…

Isolde vanished, limping, and appeared a moment later bearing dessert on a wide decorative platter, a pudding that flamed blue to general oohs and aahs. Cauthrien had eyes only for the flame, ridiculous, and the garnish of candied fruits on the side, expensive and _excessive_ this soon after a Blight, the pears and grapes were not grown by Fereldan farmers this time of year and the whole thing smelled of ridiculousness and Orlais –

And then Loghain was on his feet, chair overturned, announcing that Maric’s long-lost shield was the gold platter on which the pudding was served.

Before the room erupted into chaos, Cauthrien heard Rocinante whimper in despair.

 

III.

 “Halt!”

She did, gratefully. The noonday sun was hot on her back and she could only imagine how Loghain must be feeling, trussed up in his beloved rusted plate with the golden dessert platter strapped to his arm. There was no shade at the edge of the blighted farmlands, no trees, just miles upon miles of rolling hills and dry fields. They must be nearing Lothering, she thought. They’d certainly been walking long enough.

Loghain stood just ahead of her, at the top of the hill, and he motioned her forward with a curt wave. “Do you see them?”

“See what, my lord?”

“Them!”

Cauthrien squinted.

There were shapes on the horizon, yes, though she had to shade her eyes to make them out – tall, thin, turning in the dry wind, a narrow body and four wide-sailed arms that caught in the breeze.

“The windmills, my lord? They’re just windmills.”

Loghain shook his head. His jaw was set, his skin pale with fury. He drew his sword and his face was the face of the Hero of River Dane, the man she’d followed, and his eyes were alight as he stared down his foe.

“ _Orlesians._ ”


End file.
